One Slip
by Cymoril Avalon
Summary: Albert Wesker and William Birkin, working together once again, are handed the most intriguing and potentially valuable specimen they've ever studied. AU, post RE4, semi movie crossover.


Disclaimer: I don't own the Resident Evil universe, either the games or the movies.

Synopsis: What would happen if Alice existed in the game-verse? AU, post-RE4. Yes, Birkin is alive. Dude, it's Capcom; no one stays dead.

* * *

The laboratory was silent save for Birkin's fingers tapping a beat on his microscope as he squinted into it, muttering to himself. Swiftly, he swapped slides, making a few adjustments and then continuing the irritating tap-tap-tap, this time on the desk.

Wesker tuned him out, focused entirely on slowly pulling apart a still-squirming man who had been flayed alive. The subject really shouldn't have still been conscious, yet he was, and Wesker had been forced to shove a gag in his mouth to keep him from causing more of a ruckus than Birkin. There was only so much distraction Wesker could tolerate before the urge to put his fist through someone's face became even more overwhelming than usual, and while the loss wouldn't have been detrimental, Wesker prided himself on his level of control.

"Damnit, stop doing that," Birkin hissed at one of the slides, tossing it away in frustration.

"Having problems?" Wesker looked up from his gruesome task, his white lab coat stained with blood and gore.

"No," Birkin grumped. Then, "Yes."

"Perhaps you should work with what you have rather than creating something new."

"Logic."

"It's quite useful occasionally."

"I like creating new viruses."

"You have roughly how many incomplete experiments now?"

Birkin waved a hand. "This one," he declared, "is going to be glorious. Oh, I heard something the other day. Shall I share?"

Wesker said nothing, which his companion took as acquiescence.

Expansively, Birkin quoted, "People think of the inventor as a screwball, but no one ever asks the inventor what he thinks of other people."

"You are a screwball."

"Notwithstanding, that is a good quote."

"Who said it?"

"I don't know. Google it if you must."

"I'm a little busy."

Birkin snorted. "Doing what?"

"Important things."

"Nothing you do is as important as what I do, and I have the time for random Google searches."

"William."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Can I put on music?"

"No."

"I always listen to music when I work."

"Since when?"

"Since forever." Birkin was beginning to sound petulant. "Can I just…"

"No, William." Wesker yanked a piece of raw flesh from the man's exposed thigh, ignoring the muffled shrieks and dropping the meat into a nearby container. Then he began sawing at a muscle, his expression almost content.

Sighing, Birkin turned back to his work, but was immediately interrupted.

A young man – one of the interns, presumably – burst into the room, breathless and flushed, barely even glancing at the squirming mass on the autopsy table. "Sawyer says you're needed in B-5. Now."

"Is there a problem?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, then turned and bolted.

Birkin stared after him, an eyebrow raised. "Just who does Sawyer think he is…"

"The man who writes our paychecks."

"…to boss us around like that…"

"He's also the one who approved your current funding."

"…doesn't he know we're _busy_…"

Shrugging out of his lab coat, Wesker draped it over the now-still body, then removed his protective gloves and dumped them in a biohazard container in the corner of the room. Tugging on the more familiar pair of black leather, he flexed his fingers, then gestured to the door. "Come, William."

Running a hand through already mussed hair, Birkin scurried after Wesker, closing the door behind them. They strolled down pristine white hallways, their footfalls silence by a thick carpet that had to be replaced every other week, considering the accidental spills that occurred. An unnecessary expense in Birkin's opinion – tile or wood would have worked perfectly well – but it was none of his concern. If the corporation's idiot board wanted carpets, then carpets they got.

He couldn't help but wonder if they'd even been down in the labs, or were even aware of the experiments that were going on. Sure, they had research scientists diligently working on cures to diseases – Alzheimer's was their primary subject – but the rest, covered by a black budget held in tight control by Samuel Sawyer, pursued less charitable interests. For all Birkin knew, the mother company was nothing but a candy coating; that, like their choice of décor, was none of his business, and truly he couldn't care less. It was beneficial to simply ask for something and have it handed to him, no questions asked., and so long as he received a paycheck and was offered the freedom to do as he pleased…

They paused outside of a closed door flanked by two soldiers standing guard. They nodded to the scientists, and one opened the door for them. Wesker breezed by as if they didn't exist; Birkin gave them a once-over and sniffed before following, eyes skimming the entire room before falling on a reinforced holding tank containing…

"A woman," Wesker said, unimpressed.

"Too old," Birkin lamented.

"Let me out!" the woman insisted, banging her fist against the glass.

Sawyer stood in front of the holding tank, arms folded across his broad chest, while a flurry of lab-coated assistants scurried here and there, scribbling things down on notepads and fiddling with blood and tissue samples. Tall and middle-aged, Sawyer was in excellent shape, and he held himself with the confidence only an ex-military man could manage. "Gentleman," he greeted without turning. "My men caught an interesting stray."

The woman's eyes flashed unnaturally, then subsided back into a normal blue color.

Wesker frowned. "Tyrant?"

"Not exactly."

"How was she captured?"

"She took out six of my men before she was subdued. She didn't remain out for long. She has no identification and the database can find no match for her fingerprints. For all intents and purposes, this woman does not exist." A pause. "She claims her name is Alice."

Birkin giggled. "This little thing killed six men?"

Sawyer threw him a dark look. "She isn't human."

"Then what is she?"

"That's why you're here." Now he was looking at Wesker, gaze unreadable. "I need you two to find out. I want to know her capabilities, her weaknesses, and whether her strength can be harnessed and controlled."

"I'm not one of your monsters," Alice snarled. "I can hear you, and I am inot/i going to help you."

"Where did you find her?" Wesker asked as if the outburst had never occurred.

Sawyer frowned. "She was attempting to break into the facility. Apparently we have someone she wants."

Birkin was curious despite himself. "Who are you looking for?"

Alice looked at each of the men in turn, as if weighing her options. "Claire Redfield."

Wesker was the one who responded. "We don't have her."

"Bullshit."

"Believe me," Wesker drawled, "I am well acquainted with Miss Redfield. I'd certainly know if she was being housed in this facility. Your efforts were for naught."

"She's clearly agitated," Birkin said uncertainly, not knowing who Claire Redfield was and not especially caring. "We'll need to tranquilize her. I don't especially feel like losing a limb to a tyrant."

"She's not a tyrant."

"There is a definite lack of mutation." Wesker prowled around the holding tank, his steps measured and slow. "Her strength is above average?"

"As are her reflexes. Truth be told, I think it was sheer luck we captured her. Which is why I want to know what she is. All of your current projects are to be put on hold until this is completed, and I expect your first reports tomorrow afternoon. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good." Sawyer ran a hand over his shaved head, dark eyes brooding. With a final glance at Alice, he left the room.

"Why us?" Birkin whined, clearly irritated that he had to push everything aside for what seemed like a useless pet project. So what if this woman knew how to fight? Birkin had viruses to play around with.

"Why do you think?" Wesker looked at the assistants, chased them out, and then did something extraordinary – he took off his sunglasses. Reddish-gold eyes met Alice's, and the corner of his lips tilted in an almost-smile. "I've heard about you."

Birkin blinked. "You have?"

"It's important to know what's going on in the outside world."

"Whatever for?"

Wesker gestured to Alice with his chin. "She's not a tyrant," he reiterated, as if it were necessary; really, most of his talk was for her benefit, not for Birkin's. The man wasn't as stupid as he acted. "But from what I've heard, she has been genetically altered. I had considered seeking her out, but it seemed too much effort. To think, here she is, dropped straight into my lap."

Worry flickered across her face, but Alice said nothing, simply falling back in a defensive position.

"You are certain you gave me the only existing sample of that virus?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

They both fell silent, one still grousing about his poor luck, the other studying the woman in the holding tank as if she were a particularly interesting specimen, dissecting her with his eyes.

"William."

"Hmm?"

"Grab some materials and then unseal the door. You're going to take some fresh samples."

"Shouldn't we restrain her?"

Wesker broke out a genuine smile. "Leave that to me." Approaching the holding tank again, he rested a hand on the door, staring intently at Alice. "I do so hope she fights."


End file.
